Permanent
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Rogue's idly watching the movement of his fingers, the shape of pleasure at the other's lips, when Sting shifts, presses his forehead hard against Rogue's stomach before blinking his eyes open to stare close-up at the other's paler skin." Sting asks a question and Rogue says yes.


Sting isn't wearing a shirt when he proposes.

On some level this isn't a surprise. Sting's fashion sense only has a passing acquaintance with the entire concept of 'shirts' to begin with, after all, and Rogue does make an active effort to get him out of the minimal clothing he bothers wearing whenever they are anywhere close to alone. Even after months have drawn into years and the novelty has worn soft and comfortable with repetition, Rogue never gets tired of watching the warm glow of Sting's skin in the light, the elegant play of muscle over his shoulders when he stretches or rolls over. It still seems unfair to the rest of the world, that Rogue is the one who gets to trail his hand down the curve of Sting's back, that it is only Rogue who sees the softness in the blond's smile as he purrs wordless appreciation of the touch.

Rogue's not about to complain, though. It's too pleasant to have Sting's head in his lap, to have the unthinking pressure of a guild-marked arm looped around his waist to hold him close while he digs his fingers into soft locks of white-gold hair. He's idly watching the movement of his fingers, the shape of pleasure at the other's lips, when Sting shifts, presses his forehead hard against Rogue's stomach before blinking his eyes open to stare close-up at the other's paler skin.

"Rogue." His tone is level, serious enough that Rogue would pause in the motion of his fingers if it weren't for the ticklish shift of Sting's hand at his waist. The sensation says Sting is distracted by his thoughts rather than truly concerned, and that means Rogue can keep ruffling the other's hair as he hums proof of attention.

"We've been together for a long time." Sting delivers this announcement as if it's just occurred to him, as if the last several years of nearly-constant companionship have only just made their way into his awareness. Rogue doesn't laugh, doesn't even crack a smile, just nods with absolute sincerity. Sting's not _wrong_, after all, and he's clearly leading up to something more dramatic. "Should we do something about it?"

If Sting weren't in the position he is, sprawled crosswise over the bed and tucked in so close to Rogue's stomach that his lips are catching on skin when he speaks, this particular phrase would sound like the lead-in to a breakup. As it is Rogue just raises his eyebrows, lets his fingers trace down Sting's jaw to tug gently at the shine of the blond's earring. "Something?"

"Yeah." Sting lets him play with the jewelry for a moment before he tugs his head free, rolls over onto his back so he can blink up into Rogue's face. His gaze is flighty, jumping from the scar across Rogue's nose to the tangle of his half-tied ponytail to the shape of his lips before he reaches up to rest his fingertips on the other's jaw, just against the delicate skin under Rogue's ear. Rogue tips his head, lets Sting press warmth into his skin as the blond collects words into the focus of his eyes.

"Do you want to get married?" The words come quick, spilling out tripping-fast on Sting's tongue like he's afraid he'll forget what he's saying if he's too slow about it. Rogue hears them each individually, knits them together into a sentence and then a meaning, slowly, so he can be sure he's heard them right. By the time he takes a breath to speak Sting is starting to frown with unconscious intensity; he's never been very good at patience.

"You want to marry me?" Rogue asks, just to make absolutely sure before he commits himself with a response.

Sting shoves himself upright, twisting in as he moves so his mouth is suddenly kissing-close to Rogue's. Rogue blinks, his vision overrun with glowing skin and shining eyes, and it's hard to pay attention to Sting's response for the growling hum of sound under the meaning.

"Yeah. I want you to marry me."

Rogue takes a breath. It takes conscious effort, for the way his stomach is swooping like it has forsworn all allegiance to gravity. "I want _you_ to marry _me_."

Sting frowns. "That's the same thing."

"It is." Rogue is breathless, for all his efforts to take an inhale his lungs aren't working as they should, he feels like he's drowning in light. "Should we get married?"

Sting leans in, closes the distance between them like it's nothing to dip his head and press his parted lips to Rogue's jaw. "Yeah." There are fingers at Rogue's shoulder, a hand tightening on his waist, and from how hot Sting's breathing is coming at his throat Rogue has a pretty good idea they're not going to leave the bed for a while still. "We should."

Rogue's fingers fit back into Sting's hair, pull him in closer while he shifts until he can hook a leg around the blond's waist. "Okay."

Sting purrs against his collarbone, is just starting to push Rogue back when he pauses, pulls away so he can stare at the other. "That means yes, right?" His thumb slides over Rogue's skin, brushing glowing heat in its wake. "We're gonna get married and be together forever."

Rogue doesn't even attempt to hold back the smile that spreads over his face, wide and bright enough to match even Sting's grin. "Yeah." There's a warmth in Sting's words, all the comfort of permanence to fill in the unfounded certainty Rogue has always had that his future will be nothing but light.

He's certain, now, as sure as if he can see the years of his life spread out before him in shining illumination. It's all reflected back in Sting's eyes, caught on the sharp delight of his smile and lighting up his skin from the inside, and Rogue is sure that for once he's glowing just as bright as Sting is.


End file.
